Amy Qualls is a quilter and Drupalist based in Portland, Oregon.

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Wow. Merry Christmas to me—I just finished Ender's Game, a signed copy of which was Andy's Christmas present to me. Andy says that science fiction and mainstream literature are not quite so far apart as my classical education has drilled into me. Science fiction, he claims, is capable of providing the same depth of contemplative thought as any of the more widely-acclaimed "literature" that I read, without some of the mind-wrenching difficulty so often encountered in classical literature.Do I agree with him?

The urge to wrap up the year is a persistent one in humanity. Send out the old, send in the new, remember who we were, make plans for who we want to be. We're sentimental calendar-based critters. Even the most jaded among us tend to take stock of their lives in late December.

I might or might not post that sort of thing today. I haven't decided.

"This planet has billions of passengers on it, and those were preceded by infinite billions and there are vaster billions to come, and none of these, no, not one, can I hope ever to understand. Never! And when I think how much confidence I used to have in understanding—you know?—it's enough to make a man weep. Of course, you may ask, what have numbers got to do with it? And that's right, too. We get too depressed by then, and should be more accepting of multitudes than we are.

Good news—I just found out today that I got a big design project. I'll be redesigning the site for a mall down in Birmingham. I'm pleased—it appears that they're going to give me full design freedom on the site. That's rare, and it's a pleasure when it happens. It's nice to be trusted. Might even be worth posting screenshots for!Other news…

Word for the day: synesthesia. A random memory dredged up from studying psychology in college. (Yes, Brad, I know that to you it's probably 'synaesthesia.')

It's a bit odd to be sitting here right now. Big Spring Jam is quickly gearing up—Huntsville's annual music festival is less than half a block away from where I'm sitting right now. I've been listening to Michael McDonald do his soundcheck. There's a surreal quality to all this.

Sean has arrived. We spent a good while pestering each other today while I was ostensibly working.

Much better after staying home, resting, and getting a good night's sleep. I'm about halfway through Christopher Buckley's The White House Mess. Should finish it this weekend.

I have cat hair all over my red shirt this morning—Tenzing was absolutely determined that cuddling was going to take place before I left for work. I wasn't given a lot of choice in the matter. So this morning I was eating my cereal with my right hand and cradling a ten-pound lump of purring orange-and-white cat in the crook of my left arm.